Within the boundary of sense and fate, a covenant in procession, the man followed the route, like a superhighway. He was mystified by the length of the journey, a trip in perfect flawless rhythm with the heartbeat of the superhighway. Fifty-seven miles to Tampa the green reflective sign read. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it, a few cinders fell from the tip to his lap. He brushed them toward the floorboard leaving a gray smear on his black slacks.

The twilight-tide sunshine, orange and indigo velvet lit up the endless expanse of highway. Subtle designs in shadow swayed and yielded the welcome of his excursion to Tampa. An undeviating spear of concrete the superhighway derived from doubt, championed the conquest of stark barriers in feasts of fear. He was reincarnated in perfect psalms and in the instant of a breath, the purpose of infinite speculation. Reborn in union with the superhighway and its intent. He exhaled a puff of smoke in ancestral wonder, primal in reciprocating waves of fog. He reckoned with the knowledge that the divinity of custom and circumstance had brought him full circle. The sign on the sign of the road rolled by. Out loud he whispered, "Fifty-seven miles to Tampa."